


on breathing

by deanssammy (babylxxrry)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Mention of Temporary Character Death, except it starts as one and devolves into a fix-it schmoop kind of thing i dunno, i don't fucking know what this is at this point i'm sorry, i guess lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 13:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12749283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/deanssammy
Summary: breathe, they all say.buthow?[sam doesn't know how to breathe except he is]





	on breathing

**Author's Note:**

> this was sloppy as hell and i really wrote it to get stuff off my mind and into words, sorry it's not beautiful or anything  
> i meant to make it sad and existential but apparently i changed my mind at the end lmao  
> i don't know
> 
> TW: mention of temporary character death

Sam lies awake in the back of the Impala, sightless eyes staring up past the roof of the car like he can see up past the atmosphere, up higher and higher and farther until he reaches the very limits of existence.

He can’t breathe. But he’s breathing. Because he wouldn’t be alive if he wasn’t. But he’s not breathing in every sense of the word.

 _Breathe_ , they all say. _Just breathe. One at a time._

How’s he supposed to do that when it feels like the entire universe is sitting heavy on his chest? But at the same time it’s like it’s forced itself into his chest and hollowed out his entire body and he doesn’t know how something so empty can weigh so much but _god_ he hates it.

He hates it. He hates this. He hates being apart. He hates it so much.

He doesn’t hate Dean. No. Never.

But he hates whatever powers that be for taking his brother. Again.

It’s happened so many times. It’s happened so many times he doesn’t even know if he can feel the sting when it inevitable happens again. The ache, though, he’ll never escape. He’ll never escape the throbbing pain behind his sternum at four in the morning when he stares through the roof of the Impala, any semblance of rest long gone.

Sleep, though, sleep is a different story. He doesn’t want to sleep. Every time he closes his eyes and lets go of consciousness for more than a minute, he sees each time Dean’s taken, every feeling, every sensation he’d felt comes rushing back. The metallic, tangy scent of blood, far too distinct and familiar.  Dean cradled heavy in his arms. The moment Dean’s soul leaves his body. Sam’s been there every time. He knows the exact moment too well.

It’s too much. So Sam doesn’t sleep. Just rests. Closes his eyes and thinks about the better memories.

He knows Dean’ll be back, in time. But he’s never lived looking forward. No, he’s always lived within the next second, the next minute, the next hour. They can’t afford to let themselves look too far forward or back, because then they worry and regret and slip up, and in their line of work, they can’t do that.

The night is too quiet around him. He’s never liked too quiet. Quiet means wrong. He was raised in cheap motels with their shitty AC and heating units, in the backseat of the Impala with her distinct purr, always so, so close to Dean and the steady breathing he’s gotten used to listening for.

Sam slips into a fitful doze, startling awake every time another car drives past the parking lot of the motel he’s elected to stay outside of.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t wake when the door of the Impala opens, but maybe it’s because his subconscious recognizes that there’s nothing for him to be worried about. He doesn’t even wake when the car dips ever so slightly and the familiar scent of worn leather, gunpowder, and vanilla fills the air.

Sam doesn’t realize that he sleeps deep and well that night, mind blissfully free of nightmares and memories and, hell, any kind of dream at all. It’s just a restful sleep permeated with the faintest smell of blueberry pie.

Dean’s sitting in the front when Sam wakes up. He’s draped over the back of the bench, just watching Sam, and it should feel creepier than it is.

Sam stares for a minute. Takes a full breath. He tries to keep his face blank like he’s been trained to all his life, until he remembers that Dean was the one to teach him. Sam drops the forced blank, and studies his brother’s face.

He can feel the air in his lungs, finally enough and full and just… better.

Dean’s got a soft, fond glint in his eyes, and Sam can’t help the little quirk of his lips when he spots it.

“Dean. Missed you.”

“Me too, Sammy.”                  

Sam breathes, finally.

 

_-fin.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> oh for fuck's sake  
> ok anyways thanks for reading, leave a comment or kudos if breathe  
> yes  
> okay bye


End file.
